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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29091087">Good Behaviour</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arati_Mhevet/pseuds/Arati_Mhevet'>Arati_Mhevet</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Trek: Deep Space Nine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Multi, Unrequited Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:09:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,873</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29091087</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arati_Mhevet/pseuds/Arati_Mhevet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After ‘Hard Time’. Can you earn time off for good behaviour? Or does no deed go unpunished? Garak and the O'Briens.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Julian Bashir/Elim Garak</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>74</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Star Trek: Just in Time Fest</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Good Behaviour</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Good Behaviour</strong>
</p><p>Mid-morning, Elim Garak, the station’s resident tailor, and Alori Khaya, the station’s resident florist, convened as usual opposite the Klingon café to drink coffee. This twice-weekly meeting, an important fixture in Garak’s social calendar, served not only as a pleasant diversion, but also a significant means by which intelligence was gathered and passed around the civilian residents of Deep Space 9. Today, Garak and Khaya observed a particularly fraught Miles O’Brien, standing outside the grocer’s, failing to prevent his young daughter from working herself up to screaming pitch.</p><p>“That child,” said Khaya, shaking her head. “I don’t think she’s ever come into the shop without it ending in a tantrum.”</p><p>Garak sipped his <em>raktajino</em>. “In all fairness, she’s never been anything other than a delight with me.”</p><p>“Yes, well, I imagine she visits you in the company of her mother. The only time the O’Briens step inside my place is when the Chief is in trouble and needs to apologise.”</p><p>Garak laughed. Alori Khaya might give a general impression of scattiness, but only a fool would take her for a fool.</p><p>“Poor man,” she added, thoughtfully. Garak, contemplating O’Brien’s recent experiences, suppressed a shudder. Everyone knew what had happened. Starfleet and the local militia might like to think they kept their secrets, but word invariably got around. Garak hadn’t needed to crack open a single file. Keiko had talked to Jadzia, and Jadzia had talked to Leeta, and Leeta had talked to Rom – and, well, Rom was an open book. No, thought Garak – watching with an expert eye as O’Brien slid closer to his breaking point – you would not wish an experience like that on anyone.</p><p>Khaya, tapping the PADD that he’d brought with him, said, “Are you meeting the doctor for lunch?</p><p>“Yes,” Garak said, and watched her try to come up with a polite way of saying <em>‘Good luck with that…’</em> before settling on, “Have fun.” She stood up. “I should go. If the Chief’s planning a visit to the shop today, I want to put the vases out of reach.”</p><p>She waved farewell, and dashed off down the Promenade. Garak picked up his PADD and continued reading. He knew the book well, of course, Mheret’s <em>Ithian Leaves</em>, but hadn’t revisited in a while. Anyway, half the pleasure to be derived these days from reading was knowing that Bashir was reading along.</p><p>Garak came to the end of the book. He put the PADD down on the table, and sat for a while, watching the small world pass by. There was a time when he would not have done this. He would not have sat here, alone, out on the Promenade, reading a book and drinking coffee. He would not have wanted to attract attention. But at some point – after that unfortunate business with the implant, of course – Garak had realised that he could not survive solely on scraps of conversation with customers and the occasional lunch with Bashir. Sitting here, even alone, had provided connection to the wider world of the station. Somehow people had become used to the sight of him… and when, now he came to think of it, had he started drinking <em>raktajino</em>?</p><p>Garak finished his coffee, stood up, and pushed the chair neatly under the table. He’d taken half-a-dozen steps back towards the shop when he remembered his PADD. He turned back to find Dukat’s daughter, in a plain grey dress, at the table. She was laying out a sketchpad and pencils, scones and <em>moba</em> jam, and a pot of redleaf tea.</p><p>She looked up, startled. “Oh, I’m sorry! I thought you’d finished—”</p><p>“I have.” Garak picked up the PADD. “I came back for this.”</p><p>“So the table’s free…?”</p><p>“Quite free.” He pulled out the seat for her, and, when she sat down, pushed the chair back into place. “Have a pleasant morning.” He went quickly on his way, before any further complications could arise, wondering what strange impulse had made him do such a thing, and thanking whatever stars were currently smiling on him that Khaya was not here to pass news of this encounter on to their wide circle of mutual acquaintances.</p><hr/><p>Garak, cutting back across the Promenade, soon discovered that the O’Brien family drama had not resolved, merely relocated to the cover of the stairway outside the shop. One of them was now in floods of tears, and the other looked close to joining her.</p><p>“Ah!” he cried, cheerfully, breezing towards them. “Miss O’Brien! Just the young lady I was hoping to see!” He came down on one knee in front of her. Her face was a mess – running eyes and running nose and sheer exhausted misery. “Did you know,” he said, “that I have <em>several</em> new dresses inside that I believe are <em>just</em> the kind of thing a young lady like you might like, and <em>nobody </em>has tried them on for me yet?”</p><p>Molly gulped once, twice, and stopped crying. Garak, rising to his feet, offered her his hand. “Would you like to come and see?”</p><p>He saw a moment’s calculation behind her eyes – <em>clever child</em> – and then she shoved her hand in his. “Okay.”</p><p>“Well,” said Garak, “that’s settled. Molly and I will go and look at some dresses, and <em>you</em>,” he addressed the father, “can go and do whatever you need—” Garak looked pointedly in the direction of Quark’s, “—and come back in an hour.”</p><p>O’Brien’s face wavered interestingly between the opposite and irreconcilable poles of, <em>I’ll die in a ditch before handing my daughter over to a fucking Cardie</em>, and <em>Christ on a crutch, a miracle is happening</em>… Garak made the decision for him, gently manoeuvring the child inside the shop, and calling back over his shoulder, “Enjoy your freedom, Chief!”</p><p>Molly bounced ahead. How must the shop look through her eyes? Full of treasures, Garak imagined. Most adults couldn’t resist messing with the buttons, fondling the fabrics, touching, touching everything… Infuriating. He’d even caught Sisko, once, poking at the sewing machine, trying to unlock its mysteries.</p><p>Molly folded her arms and got down to business. “Dresses,” she commanded.</p><p>“Dresses,” he agreed, and went to find some. With some help, she tried on four or five, settling on a very sweet green tulle with huge blue and jade feathers down the front. “Peacock!” she cried, unintelligibly, clapping her hands together in delight, twirling round the shop. She was still wearing it an hour-and-a-half later when O’Brien, shopping in one hand and a bunch of Galanthian snow-flowers in the other, rushed into the shop to find them sitting cross-legged on the floor, Molly slumped against Garak’s arm, as he drew dress designs for her on his PADD.</p><p>“God, Garak,” O’Brien said, “I’m so sorry. I lost track of the time—”</p><p>Garak, coming to his feet, thought, not for the first time, that Keiko’s heroism was insufficiently sung.</p><p>“Has she been good? Have you been good, Molly, love?”</p><p>“She’s been an absolute delight.” She had, too, apart from the one brief escalation in hostilities when he’d refused her a fourth <em>tasni</em> biscuit.</p><p>“We should get out of your way…” said O’Brien. “Come on, Molly, grab your clothes, hurry up! Mister Garak must have better things to do with his morning than play dress up!”</p><p><em>What morning?</em> thought Garak, watching as O’Brien hustled the child towards the door. The morning was gone; its work undone. Oh well, it wasn’t as if he had any plans for the evening. He’d catch up. He waved Molly goodbye, and wondered if it would ever occur to O’Brien to offer to pay for the dress.</p><hr/><p>“What’s a peacock?” Garak said, ten minutes later, at lunch. He had half an eye on Ziyal, sitting quietly by herself, so almost missed Bashir’s expression of delightful bewilderment.</p><p>“What?” said Bashir.</p><p>“A peacock. What is a peacock?”</p><p>“Is this the opener to a joke?” said Bashir. “Am I meant to say, ‘I don’t know, what <em>is</em> a peacock?’ or something?”</p><p>“Never mind,” said Garak. “I’ll look it up. What did you think of the book?”</p><p>“I liked it.”</p><p>Garak fell back in his chair. “Who are you, and what have you done with Julian Bashir?”</p><p>The doctor smiled – so sheepishly, so beautifully – that Garak almost leaned over right there and kissed him. Almost.</p><p>“You know, Garak, I’ve liked other books you’ve given me—”</p><p>“No, you haven’t.”</p><p>“I liked <em>The Bonds that Shall Not Break</em>.”</p><p>“You said it was tedious.”</p><p>“Only towards the end. Anyway, this is rich coming from you. You’re the one that never likes anything I pick. Shakespeare.”</p><p>“I’m prepared to admit that on reflection the man may have made the occasional point.”</p><p>“Dickens.”</p><p>“Seditious, but I did like the ghost.”</p><p>“Which ghost?”</p><p>“The one that didn’t speak.”</p><p>“You hated Conan Doyle.”</p><p>“Well, yes, absolutely ludicrous. But we were talking about <em>my</em> choice of book, doctor.”</p><p>“Yes, we were.”</p><p>And so they did, and the next half-hour passed most pleasantly. Gently, Garak nudged the doctor towards the topic he most wanted to discuss. “You know,” said Bashir, at last, “there was one part that really stood out.”</p><p>The part in question had been the whole point of giving Bashir this book in the first place. Garak made an encouraging noise. “Hmm?”</p><p>“When Mas Kholett makes his sacrifice.”</p><p>“Oh yes,” said Garak, offhandedly. “The death of the illegitimate son. He’s a very minor character, doctor—”</p><p>“But Garak, it was <em>incredibly</em> moving! His whole life, spent in denial, and then finally, his chance… Giving his life to save his father’s reputation, save the family who know nothing about him – who will never know <em>anything</em> about him…” Bashir gave an embarrassed laugh. “You know, I may have cried.”</p><p>“I suppose it has a certain sentimental charm,” Garak said.</p><p>“A certain <em>charm—</em>?<em>”</em></p><p>“Did you know,” Garak went on, “that Mas Kholett is the first sympathetic portrait of an illegitimate child in Cardassian literature? Before him, children of uncertain parentage were invariably portrayed as thieves and cheats and liars. Quite the lowest of the low.”</p><p>Bashir looked back at him as if feeling the weight of every sad life burdened by such assumptions. Garak thought that perhaps he had never loved him more.</p><p>“But Garak, that’s…”</p><p>“What, doctor?”</p><p>“I was going to say ‘inhuman’,” admitted Bashir.</p><p>Garak couldn’t help himself. He laughed in the young man’s face. “Oh, my dear doctor!”</p><p>“But I’ll just say, ‘unkind’.”</p><p>“Maybe,” said Garak. “But rather Dickensian, no?”</p><p>“Dickens was on the side of the underdog.”</p><p>“And Lotar Mheret was on Mas Kholett’s side. Showing that a bastard might act nobly was quite shockingly unorthodox, doctor. Almost verging on dissident.”</p><p>“He still ends up dead,” said Bashir.</p><p>“But acknowledged. And thus rewarded.”</p><p>“Being dead,” said Bashir, “isn’t a reward.”</p><p>Garak found himself contemplating Ziyal. <em>That depends</em>, he thought, looking past her round the Promenade, <em>on what it's like to be alive</em>. But since saying that was likely to stop Bashir’s smiles, he held his tongue, and turned the conversation back to the central image of the <em>ithian</em> tree. Ziyal, finishing her unobtrusive lunch, vacated the table. The space was quickly filled by Miles and Molly O’Brien, the latter with the largest ice-cream that the Replimat could supply, and still magnificent in the green tulle dress.</p><p>“Ah,” said Bashir, as enlightenment dawned. “Peacock!”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Molly’s dress. That one of yours?”</p><p>“Oh, I think it most certainly belongs to Miss O’Brien now.”</p><p>“It’s her birthday next week, you know. Five years old. Can you believe it?”</p><p>“<em>Five</em> years?” No, Garak couldn’t quite believe that either.</p><p>“Seems like only yesterday she was a baby. And another coming…” Bashir’s expression fell. “I hope they’re going to be all right.”</p><p>“They seem a very close, very happy family to me,” said Garak.</p><p>Molly, holding up a spoonful of ice cream, caught sight of him, and waved madly. Garak, watching the ice cream slide from the spoon and down the front of the dress, somehow smiled and waved back.</p><hr/><p>Outside the Replimat, about to go their separate ways, they were caught by Dax, coming from the direction of Quark’s. “Julian! I’ve just booked the holosuites. I’ve got the spa programme ready for Keiko, and you and Miles… Well, whatever you want.”</p><p>“Excellent!” said Bashir. “Have we got a babysitter yet?”</p><p>“I’m pretty sure Jake is free,” Dax said. “I’m pretty sure Benjamin will <em>insist</em> he’s free.”</p><p>“You should ask Garak,” said Bashir, wickedly. “Molly seems to have taken a shine to him.”</p><p>“At which frankly alarming prospect,” said Garak, “I shall retreat to the safety of the shop.” He left them to their plans and, soon enough, was back behind the sewing machine, where he’d been for the past five years, and where he was likely to be for the foreseeable future.</p><p>The first time Garak read <em>Ithian Leaves </em>had been late one night, by flashlight, in the library of Tain’s town house. He often went there, when Tain was away and Mila was asleep, to work his way through its treasures. He remembered distinctly reading the moment when Kholett decided to take the blame for the crime he had not committed, take on the guilt and shame and disgrace that were his birth-right, and save the father and family he loved. When his father handed him the knife and called him ‘son’, Garak put his head down and wept. Then he dried his eyes and went to bed.</p><p>Five years ago, halfway out of the door and knowing it was slamming shut behind him, Garak had thought of offering Tain his life in compensation… Insane. To dare to make that claim? To even <em>hint</em> at their connection? Tain would have killed him on the spot. Now here he was and Tain was gone, and Garak was starting to think that perhaps this prison sentence, which had never had any discernible end, was indeed all there was left now, and that by far the worst part was how <em>comfortable</em> he had become, how far he had accommodated to these constraints… Insidious, yes…  </p><p>Mila had found him once, in the library, in the half-light, reading, and given him the scolding of his life. The slap stung for ages afterwards. <em>“This is not your house and you must not treat it that way. We should be grateful for a home, Elim. Grateful for whatever we get</em>.”</p><p>“Oh yes, <em>sasi</em>,” he murmured now, all these long years later, surveying the stack of alterations on the bench. “I am so very grateful to you both.” He’d gone back to the library, of course, many times – but she never caught him again. He made sure of that.</p><p>The door to the shop opened and Keiko O’Brien entered, arms full of green tulle. “Garak,” she said, holding up the dress. “I’m so sorry. Miles shouldn’t… I mean…”</p><p>Garak slipped round quickly to join her. She looked tired, upset. There had been a quarrel, surely; tears, no doubt. “Professor—”</p><p>“It’s <em>covered</em> in ice cream! Honestly… Could you still sell it? If I paid to have it cleaned?”</p><p>“I could,” Garak said. “Or you could simply keep it.”</p><p>“<em>Keep</em> it?”</p><p>“Well, it’s her birthday next week, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Oh, I couldn’t… Can I <em>pay</em>? I can’t not pay—”</p><p>Garak reached for some lies. “It was a commission, you know. They paid ages ago and never collected. I can hardly charge twice—”</p><p>“Garak,” she said, firmly. “I’m not leaving here without paying for this damn dress.”</p><p>This, he decided, was a battle that she more needed to win. “Very well,” he said, and prepared the bill. “She does look lovely in it.”</p><p>“Yes,” said Keiko, softly. “She does.”</p><p>He handed her the PADD. As she bent over it, he examined the damage to the dress. Oh, but this was no trouble to clean - even the Chief would manage, with instructions. But perhaps better left to a more expert eye. “Professor," he said, fingers lightly brushing the feathers, "what is a peacock?”</p><p>“A peacock?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>She looked up at him, puzzled at first, and then she laughed. What a nice woman she was. “It’s a bird, Garak,” she said, with a sweet smile. “A bird with huge blue and green feathers that it fans out behind itself, like a beautiful costume. Who's been telling you about peacocks?”</p><p>“Why, Molly, of course...” Garak took a deep breath. “You know, Professor,” <em>and speaking as your friendly local interrogator</em>, “the Chief will recover. Isolation is what brings people to their knees. It’s quite plain that you are all surrounded by a great deal of goodwill.”</p><p>Keiko passed back the PADD. Account settled. “It seems we are.” She cradled the dress in her arms for a moment, then left it to his care.</p><p>“I'll have this ready for her tomorrow afternoon,” he promised. “Thank you, Professor. And enjoy your evening with Dax.”</p><p>“Oh,” she breathed. “I intend to.”</p><p>After she left, Garak made himself a cup of hot, bitter <em>gelat</em>. As close to home as he got these days. He went and stood watching the traffic on the Promenade. Ziyal was out there, buying flowers. When she saw him, he raised his cup to her, and earned a soft half-smile. Then he went back inside, the rest of the long day stretching ahead, altering and mending.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to Skittles_Walters for the prompt and the peacock. </p><p>29th-30th January 2021</p></blockquote></div></div>
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